Pimone Triplett
Round Earth's Corner

   Take operation’s shimmy all the way back, 
spot where my hand on the fridge handle un-
hands whole networks: PG&E pumping 

its box-car’d, coal-jumped generators,
the hectic electric passing its bright idea
to last week’s Buddha Delight back there,

gone bad. I hold the door open till the hum
starts. Cold seeps from the chamber. A shiver
now at the neck. Then closed, then the sidling

miles of cable keeping me connected, the metals
dug, welded, smelted from cooling cores,
bauxite and ore, beat to unairy thinness, 

underground passages, new flanged steel.
All that’s rolled, snipped, fitted, piped 
to reach my unit, me, a paying customer, 

heart thumping steady, my veins branched
in need of these rivets, bolts, coils, rubber 
tubes and tape. The sum trained to wipe neat 

in a blink if dinner drips down the white 
laminate door when the container spills. Dear 
Power service, if I am standing before my coffin-

sized hole of near-freezing to take from, 
am I not the thought you think, one synapse
among the many, though so many have less.  

This season, teach me how to repent,
the cells of this body sitting down 
before my huge plate of food.

Found In Volume 42, No. 01
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Pimone Triplett
About the Author

Pimone Triplett’s most recent collection is Rumor. She teaches in the MFA program of the University of Washington.